The creak of the windmill

I had the opportunity to be up in the hills at the Walker ranch near a little trap on the backside of the ranch. There you can hear windmill music and that brought back memories of yesteryear. 

Yes, I can remember hearing the creaks and the groans of an old windmill when I was just a sprout, especially of early morn and sometimes at night, where the sound would come through the bunkhouse window and just loll you to sleep. It was a comforting sound that helped you know that all was right with your world. 

One great past time for old timers seems to be the art of reminiscing. And often something comes up to remind you of various subjects that were worth remembering. And that windmill music up in the hills of the Walker Ranch brought memories from back in the days of my youth and our ol’ creaking squeaking windmill. 

Windmills were an important part of growing up for several reasons, of course, keeping us in water would top the list, but they were useful in many ways. Kids at play would climb to the top, or as we called it, the crow’s nest. While you were up there, the world was yours. 

You could look off into the distance searching for approaching pirate ships, or marauding Indians, or to just search the horizon for the unexpected. Of course, you had to be wary of the old folks that might show up to tell you to, “Get yourself to the ground right this instant! And don’t let me catch you up there again!”  

Mom would hang empty flour or feed sacks on the lower brace so the wind might blow away the dust from them before she washed and used them to sew a dress or some shirts. Dad would use it to hang a deer carcass that he was cleaning or in the winter hang a side of beef that helped feed the family. 

We had an old Jersey milk cow that learned to turn on the faucet when she was thirsty, however, she never mastered turning it off. Those were good memories and helped make this poem. Could you just imagine, topping that hill ahorseback, to see the towering frame of a windmill? A scene likened to a sailor’s first sight of a lighthouse on the horizon, this symbol of a free and easy western life bereft of hardships and woe. And with this vision, comes the sounds that can only be emitted from the workings of a windmill. 

You relish the moment, immersed in the glories of God’s blessings. Your senses are alive with sight of a circling hawk searching the waving prairie grass that carried an aroma of sage and trail dust settled by recent raindrops. And then, you hear the sound that tree leaves make as they rustle with the breeze caressing the branches of trees with their dancing shadows that give respite to cattle as they graze toward evenings drink of cool waters. 

All the while, you are listening to the music of the windmill creaks and groans. And yes, it’s the old timer’s pastime, bringing back good memories when those regal old windmills stood tall, and cowboys would pause to sip a cool drink of water and maybe spin a yarn as they watched late afternoon shadows lengthen from the windmills tower and the sunset sink slowly in the west.

The Creak of the Windmill

He topped the ridge and there it stood like the hand of God,

In all its glory an’ splendor,

A beacon to man an’ beast that travel this sod,

‘Crost eons of time an’ more.

The lad removed his dust clad hat, as day nears its end,

He had a feelin’ of delight,

Knowin’ without doubt this vision was a Godsend,

An’ he marveled at its sight.

He’d seen it from afar as it towered into the sky,

This majestic symbol of the west,

 Thinkin’ a sip of cool windmill water he would try,

Knowin’ it would meet the test.

The ol’ windmill had weathered many a day,

Offerin’ its cool nectar,

To weary, thirsty travelers along the way,

The lack of wind a constant spector.

With a bit of a creak an’ a drawn out groan,

An’ maybe a thunk or two,

That ol’ windmill gripes about the wind that’s blown,

‘Crost the land and that sky of blue.

But it carried on in a traditional way,

Bringin’ cool waters from the ground,

To splash invitingly in nature’s ballet,

With settin’ sun as background.

The evening shadows lengthen as it towers into the sky,

As last remnants of sunlight gleams,

A windmill in the sunset sings its lovely lullaby,

That becomes fodder for one’s dreams.

Yet that ol’ windmill continues to groan an’ creak,

As the breeze pushes its wheel,

An’ one might imagine they can hear it speak,

Though ne’er thing will it reveal.

The breeze becomes wind, yet the wheel resists its speeds,

As it turns throughout the night,

An’ the water flows an’ fills the tank, spilling through the reeds,  

Glistenin’ in the pale moonlight.

An’ at the dawn, the windmill finds no rest,

As gusts from relentless wind speaks,

An’ buffets that turning wheel, heedless of all protests,

Of squalls an’ groans an’ greaseless creaks,

An’ many a cowboy has been lulled to sleep,

By that windmill’s whirring groan,

With a soothing promise of riches to reap

Few travelers have ever known.

A welcome boon to all who cross this sod,

Their thirst to quench, their soul to heal,

A soothing melody that brings you closer to God,

Hearin, the creak of that ol’ windmill!

© Ol’ Jim Cathey

They say he was a fighter, a lover, a story teller and a purty good windmill man! 

God bless each of you and God Bless America!